


Human Pillow

by thebearking



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Mutant Reader, Other, POV Second Person, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pyrokinetic Reader, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, and you just want to be held, bucky just wants to hold somebody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 19:39:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7727308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebearking/pseuds/thebearking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're a retired Avenger tasked with taking care of Bucky as he recovers from his time with Hydra. You offer your cuddling services to help Bucky sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Human Pillow

**Author's Note:**

> reader (gender-neutral) has pyrokinesis.

He approached you while you were eating breakfast, shuffling into the kitchen with damp hair and a nervous look in his eye. You hadn’t heard him go out for his morning jog—you never did; he was too quiet—and he had apparently returned and showered without you noticing either. You put down your fork and looked up at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak. He stopped a couple feet away from you.

“Pillows,” he mumbled, avoiding your gaze.

Your brows knitted together, puzzled.

His jaw clenched in frustration. “Can… Can I have more of them?” His eyes finally locked with yours. They appeared grayer than they were blue; the horrors of his past and the frequency of his night terrors had sucked the color right out of them. He looked so uncomfortable.

Your expression softened. “Of course, Bucky. How many do you—”

“Two,” he replied before you could finish; then, more quietly, “Two, if you have ’em. Please.”

You nodded, pushing your chair away from the table and grabbing your empty plate. “I have some in the hallway closet. I’ll get them for you in just a sec,” you called over your shoulder as you rinsed your plate in the sink.

There was silence. You wondered if he had left, but when you placed your dish on the drying rack, he spoke. “Thank you.”

You smiled, turning around to face him—only to find him gone.

* * *

You never thought to ask why he needed so many pillows. Bucky had been staying with you for nearly a month, about a year into your self-proclaimed retirement. You had gently reminded him that he was allowed to want things, but so far he had rarely asked you for a thing, perhaps out of fear of looking vulnerable. Maybe he snored; if he did, you had never heard him, and since your rooms were adjacent to each other, you figured that couldn’t be it. You wondered if he had an injury, if he had a twisted ankle that needed relief from swelling, or if he had heartburn and simply needed to elevate his upper body.

Your curiosity got the better of you, and at two in the morning, when you knew Bucky would have finally fallen asleep, you crept down the hall and into his room, treading across the wood floors as silently as you could in your fuzzy socks. His door was closed; you opened it slowly, just a crack, so you could peer inside.

Bucky was curled up on his bed, the blankets tangled around his legs. You saw three pillows: one beneath his head (the one you had originally provided) and two others held close to his body. One was tucked between his legs, another between his arms against his stomach.

You smiled. He was a cuddler. A sleep-cuddler. You bit back an outright giggle, watching him quietly. He twitched violently in his sleep, his arms tightening around the pillow. He whimpered, and your heart sank. Even with the extra pillows, it looked like having a false cuddle buddy just wasn’t enough for him to achieve a good night’s sleep.

You thought for a moment, then shut the door and retreated into the hallway. Whatever plan you were forming, you would suggest it in the morning.

* * *

When Bucky returned from his morning run and workout the next day, he found you already awake. Strange… You were usually asleep whenever he came back. Still, he could see how tired you were, slouched groggily on the couch with a ceramic cup of some hot beverage billowing steam into your face. You turned to him with groggy eyes, smiling gently. “Morning,” you rasped, sipping from your drink.

“Hi,” Bucky greeted you, plopping down on the couch beside you. “You’re up early.”

You set your mug down on the coffee table, turning in your seat and tucking your legs underneath you so you could sit facing him. “I wanted to talk to you,” you began, fiddling with the drawstrings of your sweatpants.

Bucky swallowed, his heart speeding up in his chest. This was it; you were going to kick him out. He’d thought that his nightmares had lessened, that he wasn’t screaming as much in his sleep, but perhaps he wasn’t being as quiet as he thought. Maybe the reason you were up so late was because his constant nightmares were too noisy for you to fall back asleep. The risk of him relapsing had proved too much for you. He didn’t blame you, not when your roommate was just a hallucination away from destroying your furniture and crushing your windpipe. “What about?” he asked, formulating an apology in his head.

“I, uh…” You cleared your throat, looking embarrassed. “I saw you sleeping last night.”

Bucky frowned, wondering where this was going. “O.K.?”

“I just wanted to check on you, make sure you were sleeping alright,” you explained frantically. “When I did, I saw why you needed the extra pillows, but… you still seemed uncomfortable.”

Bucky sighed and leaned into the back of the couch. “It’s not your fault, really,” he muttered. “The pillows help. I just… I can’t relax. It’s not the same as…” He cut himself off.

You grinned sympathetically. “As the real thing?” He whipped around to look at you, obviously astonished that you had guessed what he was feeling. “I understand. When I ended my last relationship, it was hard to sleep alone again. It sucks not having someone to cuddle with at night. Especially with your night terrors, Buck. Maybe…” Your gaze dropped to your lap, where your fingers drummed erratically against your thigh. “Maybe I can help.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. He thought his heart was going to leap right out of his chest, it was thumping so hard, so fast. “What… What are you suggesting?” he choked out.

“I could sleep with you.” When you saw his alarmed expression, your cheeks warmed in realization. “Not like that! In a purely innocent kind of way. Just to… cuddle with you, so you have someone to hold on to at night.” You saw him relax once you explained yourself. “It’s getting cold nowadays, and I don’t have a heater, so I could help keep you warm, too.” Jesus, how many innuendos could you stuff into one conversation?

You waited for a response, your eyes searching his face for any strong emotions, negative or positive. You found none, just his face lost in thought, as he mulled over your offer. You were going to assure him that he didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to do and that this was probably a dumb suggestion when he said, “Sure,” and then, softly, “Thank you.”

You grinned, reaching over to pat his arm. “Of course.” He stood to walk down the hall and take his shower. “I’ll… come by your room later, O.K.?”

He nodded. You thought you saw the corners of his lips twitch up into a smile before he padded off down the hall. When the bathroom door clicked shut behind him, you slumped against the back of the couch, your face warmer than ever.

What the hell had you just gotten yourself into?

* * *

You made meatloaf and potatoes for dinner that night, one of Bucky’s favorites. He had even helped out, cutting the potatoes and seasoning them for you, no doubt to ensure that they were made with enough garlic powder, thyme, and paprika, just how he liked them. If there was one thing you knew he appreciated from the twenty-first century, it was the flavorful food you made for him.

After dinner, the two of you washed dishes together in a comfortable silence. He washed while you dried, and eventually you began to hum, and your humming turned into whistling. You knew Bucky had watched _Snow White_  back in his day, and so you transitioned into “Whistle While You Work,” hoping he might join in. He chuckled in recognition but only listened to you, a pleased little grin on his face. You and Bucky headed to the living room once all the dishes were placed in their respective cabinets. You left the light off and flitted around the room, lighting each candle with your pointer finger. While you’d love to simply focus and light them all with just the thought of it, you didn’t want to startle Bucky—not after he nearly fell off the couch with surprise when you stepped into the room and the fireplace roared to life without you touching it.

When Bucky had first moved in with you, you had drafted a list of movies and TV series for him to watch—a list which had grown to an ungodly length as you remembered more and more classics that he “just couldn’t miss.” It was his turn to pick a movie tonight, and so he decided on _Kill Bill: Volume 1_. You would save _Volume 2_ for another day. The two of you settled on opposite ends of the sofa and fell silent as the movie began, the familiar trumpet intro resonating from the speakers.

Bucky seemed to enjoy the film, despite its violence… or perhaps because of the violence. You figured the visceral images of battle and bloodshed would be familiar for him, and hopefully not in a triggering way. His eyes widened when Uma Thurman took down the entire Crazy 88 single-handedly. Despite the nature of the scene, you grinned; watching the film reminded you of being on a mission, of how it felt to win a battle, to lose a battle, to fight like your life depended on it. You curled up against the armrest, letting your mind wander to memories of entering throngs of enemy soldiers, fully ignited, your flames melting any bullet sent your way.

Unknowingly, your eyes had slipped closed. You awoke to Bucky calling your name softly, his hand on your shoulder. The credits were rolling. You sat up, rubbing your eyes with your fists. Meatloaf and a movie could tire you out any day.

Your eyes shifted from the TV screen to Bucky, who was squirming in his seat uneasily, avoiding your gaze. You rose and turned off the television set, fiddling with your shirt hem as you pivoted to face him. “You, uh… You ready? For bed, I mean,” you intoned, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

Bucky bobbed his head in affirmation, his eyes finally meeting yours. They looked so dark, now that the room was lit only by your candles and not the movie. “I need to brush my teeth. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes. Take your time.”

You rubbed the back of your neck sheepishly. Apparently he knew about your lengthy bedtime routine. Of course, the bathroom was across from his room, so he was bound to hear the faucet running as you got ready for bed every night. “See you then,” you called over your shoulder, shuffling to your room.

You stripped out of your outfit, depositing the dirty clothes into their respective hampers, and slipped into your pajamas. For that night you donned a faded graphic tee and basketball shorts. It was rare for you to wear pants at night—your core body temperature of nearly 300 degrees Fahrenheit prevented you from sleeping comfortably under the covers otherwise—but with the cool autumn weather and Bucky’s presence, you could afford to be fully clothed. You went to the bathroom next, brushing your teeth and washing your face. You couldn’t discern whether you were being truly assiduous or just stalling. The thought of Bucky waiting patiently in his bed for you—possibly shirtless—brought warmth rushing to your cheeks.

You splashed water on your skin to rinse, blinking away the droplets that clung to your eyelashes. “You can do this,” you hissed to your reflection. “It’s Bucky. He’s a friend. You’ve cuddled with friends before.” Friends that you had known for years, not for a mere three-and-a-half weeks. Friends who were stable and not stricken with the most severe case of PTSD you had ever witnessed. You shut off the faucet, standing with arms akimbo, forcing a determined expression. “You’ve got this. Just don’t ignite. That’s the one objective. Keep him warm; don’t ignite.”

You turned the light off behind you as you headed to Bucky’s room, your heart beating erratically in your chest. His door was cracked open. You poked your head inside, immediately finding him on his bed, sitting propped up against the headboard. He was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, more clothed than you had expected but still less than you were used to. He rarely wore short-sleeved shirts around you, as he was still insecure about his metal limb, and so you mostly saw him clad in multiple layers, no matter the weather.

He surprised you by patting the spot next to him invitingly. You stepped inside, closing the door when he didn’t instruct you otherwise. His bed wasn’t as soft as yours, but it was nothing to complain about. During your time as an Avenger, you had found ways to sleep comfortably in the quinjet seats on rides home from missions. You could handle this.

You sat with your back against the headboard for a few seconds. When Bucky said nothing, you leaned forward, exhaling deeply, and grasped your ankles in a stretch. “How do you wanna do this?” you asked, your voice higher than you’d expected.

Bucky cleared his throat. “I’m, uh… usually the big spoon,” he replied sheepishly, fisting the covers in his hands. “If you don’t mind.”

You managed a timid smile. “No worries. I like to be held anyway.” Bucky blinked at you, confused by your sudden enthusiasm, and you made the first move, lying down on your side facing away from him. “Go ahead,” you whispered over your shoulder.

“Actually, let’s switch sides.” You flashed him a puzzled look, and he scooted to the end of the bed, standing up. Your gaze fell upon his torso, studying how his T-shirt was stretched tautly over his broad chest, how the hem had ridden up and revealed a strip of bare skin just above the waistband of his sweats. Your eyes shot back up to his, and you fought the urge to burst into flames. “I’d prefer if I’m the one closest to the door,” he told you. “For safety reasons.”

You nodded, processing what he’d said, and obliged, rolling over to the side of the bed pushed up against the wall. Bucky turned off the lamp on his bedside table and slipped into bed next to you. “Covers or no covers?” he asked.

You grinned cheekily at the wall. “Not to be cocky or anything, but I don’t think you’ll need ’em. I got this.”

Bucky chuffed softly. It was a pleasant sound; you wanted to hear it again from him. He left the covers in a messy heap at the foot of the bed and lay down beside you. He moved closer until he was flush against you, and you could feel his body heat merging with yours. Bucky was a nice temperature, you decided. The non-enhanced humans with whom you had cuddled had felt at least ten degrees colder. You decided that the super soldier serum had effectively made him a more suitable cuddling candidate. You’d have to test this theory on Steve.

He slid his metal arm beneath your pillow and draped his right arm over you, pulling you even closer, if possible, and you could feel his heart hammering against your back. He slotted his knees beneath yours, spooning you. “This O.K.?” he rasped, his breath fanning the back of your neck.

You nodded. He was firm, but softer than you expected. The lukewarm temperature of his body contrasted nicely with the cool sensation of his arm under your pillow. You felt the metal plates shift beneath your cheek with a muffled whir. You thought about all the trauma caused by that arm, about how Bucky could so easily crush you in his arms… and here he was, the former Winter Soldier himself, holding you so tenderly. “Goodnight,” you said with a yawn, allowing yourself to go limp in his arms.

For a second, his whole body tensed, but a few beats later he relaxed. “Goodnight.”

* * *

You awoke from the best sleep you’ve had in months to find Bucky’s chest pressed against your face. Evidently, you had turned over in your sleep, and your arms were now wrapped around each other. You peeked up at Bucky to see he was still asleep, eyes closed, his face so much more serene than you’d ever seen it. Sleep deaged Bucky, even with the thick stubble on his cheeks; it softened all the rugged lines of his face. You smiled. He looked so peaceful. Apparently he had slept as well as you had.

You buried your face in Bucky’s clothed chest. He smelled nice, exuding a comforting, musky scent that was distinctly Bucky, like dark woods and caramelized sugar. In his sleep, his arms flexed, tightening their grip around you as he sighed softly. Your legs had tangled together overnight, his knee wedged between yours. His feet were cold; you fought the urge to wiggle away from them.

It felt good to be held again, to have someone in your arms and vice versa, breath billowing against the crown of your head, ruffling your hair with each exhalation. You closed your eyes, lulled back to sleep by the steady thump of Bucky’s heart against your cheek. This was an arrangement that you could get used to. Hell, at this point, you were already used to it, and judging from the way he was curled up against you, hugging you like he was never going to let go… you had the feeling that Bucky was used to it, too.

* * *

The second time you woke up at that morning, Bucky was gone. He had been smart about it, slipping a pillow between your arms in his place. It was soft, but it was no Bucky. Judging by the faint warmth radiating from his side of the bed, he hadn’t been gone too long, maybe ten minutes. You located Bucky quickly, recognizing his heat signature across the hall, showering. The clock on his nightstand read 9:13. Both of you had overslept. Bucky hadn’t even left for a morning run, and since he was showering now, you figured he was going to skip it today.

You sniffed the pillow in your arms and realized it was the pillow Bucky had had beneath his head last night. It smelled like Bucky: warm, clean, foresty. You held on to it tightly, breathing in Bucky’s scent, already missing the weight of his arms around you.

You didn’t think you needed to be held by someone so badly until you were finally held after years of sleeping alone.

“Hey.”

You looked up to see Bucky standing in his open doorway. He was shirtless, his skin dewy after his shower, and wore a towel around his waist. It covered much of his lower half but was slung fairly low around his hips. He coughed and tugged the towel higher up on his waist. You rubbed the back of your neck in embarrassment. His hair was tied back in a bun and dark with water. It was adorable. “Hi,” you croaked, your voice dry from sleep.

Bucky padded over to his dresser, sifting through a couple drawers for clothes. You sat up in bed, the pillow resting on your lap. You kneaded it absently. “I… I slept really well last night,” you murmured, waiting to see how he’d react.

He paused before closing his top drawer. “I did, too.” He had one hand on the dresser, the other holding up his towel. You wished he would turn to you, but the view of his sculpted back was more than welcome in your opinion. You were admiring the way his muscles rippled beneath his skin when he finally did face you, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. His eyes met yours, looking bluer than ever. “Same time tonight?” he asked, his plea evident in the hopeful way he was looking at you.

Your mouth fell open in a small, surprised  _o_  before you found yourself smiling in response. A grin tugged at the corner of his lips. The sight of him smiling made your heart flutter in your chest. “Same time tonight,” you affirmed.


End file.
